Guarded
by Sasjah Miller
Summary: You never know for sure why you took the vambraces from his arms" (homoerotic content)


Title: Guarded  
  
Author: Sasjah Miller (zasjah@arandurmine.slashcity.org)   
  
Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir  
  
Rating: PG-13   
  
Feedback: yes, please   
  
Website: Arandur Mine (http://arandurmine.slashcity.org)   
  
Disclaimer: Not mine, Tolkiens.   
  
Summary: "You don't really know for sure why you took the   
  
vambraces from his arms."  
  
---------------------------------------------------------  
  
You don't really know for sure why you take the vambraces   
  
from his arms; his body lying limp and deadly white in the   
  
little Elven boat, the one that had brought him here, to his death,   
  
to his redemption.   
  
You take them anyway, at the last moment, just before Legolas   
  
begins to push the boat away from the shore to send him on his   
  
journey down the Anduin. You bend over and a tear that you   
  
did not know had formed falls on Boromir's lips, on his mouth,   
  
now closed and still forever. The grief inside you is a raging   
  
animal, clawing and biting into your soul and you know that   
  
long after it has become dumb with age, caged by the progress   
  
of time, the scars it has carved in your heart will still be there,   
  
still threatening to rip open at every opportunity. Finally, you   
  
understand why Elves can die of grief. You would do the same   
  
if you were free of the bonds that tie you to this world and its   
  
fate, and to the promises you have made.  
  
But you won't die. Not because of this. Because you promised.   
  
So you take his hand, colder now than when you were trying to   
  
scale Caradhras' treacherous flanks, and you look at his face,   
  
his eyes closed, the darkness behind them deeper than that of   
  
Moria's mines. Somewhere in the back of your mind you make   
  
the decision. Because you promised.  
  
You remove your own bracers, the ones you'd had made in   
  
Bree when you were there on a reconnaissance trip with   
  
Halbarad and life was simpler then, or so it now seems, and   
  
you lie them on the ground, kneeling to do so, kneeling for him.   
  
You gently undo the clasps of Boromir's bracers, only now   
  
truly noticing the design; the White Tree tooled into the tough   
  
leather, its silver leaves still shimmering through the blood and   
  
grime that covers the crest.   
  
It hits home. Hard. Boromir had been born under the shadow of   
  
the dead White Tree of Gondor, had lived there all his life,   
  
defending it and all that it stood for, had even gone to search   
  
for seedlings with Faramir in the mountains to replace the   
  
withered tree. But he will never see the White Tree in bloom:   
  
both of them dead now. And you will never be able to resurrect   
  
either of them.   
  
Another tear glides down your face; you feel it trail over your   
  
cheeks, mingling with the blood that has dried there, sticky Orc   
  
blood, as well as your own. You cry in silence as you pull the   
  
vambraces tight around your wrists, almost enjoying the pain   
  
this causes as the sturdy leather presses against the bruises   
  
from the fight with the Uruk-Hai that slew Boromir. Nothing   
  
broken, nothing that time will not mend. The bruises will fade,   
  
the aches will go away, the cuts will scab over and heal, and   
  
probably leave scars on your body; adding another silvery   
  
white line to the map of your past. But you don't care; those   
  
are not the wounds that matter, this is not the pain that will   
  
remain. The pain that you will feel from now on; every time   
  
you lie awake at night, the campfire crackling softly, the   
  
embers casting an eerie glow on Legolas or Gimli as one of   
  
them keeps first watch and you pretend the soft pressure of the   
  
vambraces are Boromir's strong hands gripping your wrists as   
  
he bends over you and claims you with his hungry kiss. And   
  
your hands will work their way furtively and shamefully into   
  
your breeches while you try to pretend that they are Boromir's.   
  
Afterwards you will fall asleep because you have to, lying on   
  
your side, your head resting on your arm, the leather of the   
  
bracers warm and soft against your skin, the White Tree   
  
leaving a mark on your cheek, and the fading scent of Boromir   
  
enfolding you like lover's arms.  
  
  
  
The End 


End file.
